


Gimme Shelter

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Abuse, Drugged Sex, M/M, Marijuana, Multi, Open Relationships, Polyamory, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recreational Drug Use, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-10 20:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4406249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t know when it happens. Doesn’t know what time it is, but there’s suddenly an angel above him. A beautiful, perfect angel. Blonde hair and blue eyes and an ethereal glow.<br/>---<br/>Pete is on the brink of death when he's saved by an angel who disappears without a trace. Years later, Brendon finds Pete alone on the streets and takes him in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It’s the smell, really, that Pete hates the most. The scent of cigarette smoke and burned flesh. Of sex and sweat and the tang of blood. It’s the smell that makes Pete’s stomach churn. Not that there isn’t plenty to make his stomach turn. Tonight hasn’t been the worst, thankfully. Just some bruises, a bloody lip and a couple of burns on his thigh. Pete slumps down and sits on the edge of the bed, trying to stay as far away from the other man as possible. 

“Alright, you’re done,” the man grunts. He puts a thick envelope in Pete’s hand. “Get the fuck outta here, kid.”

Pete doesn’t have to be told twice. He gets dressed as quickly as he can and hightails it out of the seedy motel room. The watch on his wrist flashes 1:52 AM. Eight minutes. Eight minutes to find his pick up. Eight minutes to hand over the money. He quickens his pace. Takes long strides and cuts across lawns and through alleyways. His heartbeat is fast but heavy. Heavy and uncomfortable. It feels like a weight in his chest. 

It’s 2:01 AM when he spots his boss on a park bench. He sprints over and holds the envelope out. It’s snatched from his hand and shoved into a coat pocket. “Made it by the skin of your teeth, Wentz.”

“I’m sorry, It won’t happen again, sir, I-” 

A boot connects with Pete’s knee and he finds himself on his back in the dirt. Next come the fists. One, two, three punches. Three punches land on Pete’s face leaving bruises and blood behind. The beating continues. A smack here, a kick there, a stab there. Fuck, is that a knife? Pete forces his mind to wander. Tries so desperately to think of anything but the pain. He doesn’t notice immediately when it ends. Only snaps back to attention when spit hits his face. 

“Next time you’re late, you’re done for,” The man tosses a wadded up ten dollar bill in Pete’s direction. His weekly stipend. The man scurries off and Pete just lies there in the dirt, floating in and out of reality. His mind is gone, stumbling around and tripping and falling over broken thoughts. 

Thoughts of how he ended up here. Here on his back in an abandoned park with only ten dollars to his name and nowhere to go. He thinks that he’s crying, but he honestly can’t be sure. He doesn’t feel much of anything. He feels empty. Emptier than usual. He does eventually come to the realization that he’s going to die here. They’ll find his body, bloody and battered, and he’ll be just another number. Just another statistic. Another dead John Doe. 

He doesn’t know when it happens. Doesn’t know what time it is, but there’s suddenly an angel above him. A beautiful, perfect angel. Blonde hair and blue eyes and an ethereal glow. The angel says something. It’s something Pete doesn’t understand, but he couldn’t speak anyway if he tried. The angel helps Pete to his feet and half-carries him a block or so to a clinic. Pete is vaguely aware of the fact that he’s bleeding all over the place and of the intense ringing in his ears. The angel sits him in a chair, says something to a nurse and runs out just as soon as he appeared.

Pete tries to open his mouth. Tries to say something, anything. He needs to know who the angel is, but he’s helpless. He knows it’s too late. The angel is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of a ridiculous AU so I apologize in advance for whatever this story evolves into. The prologue is set sometime in 2006-2007 and the "present" time in the story is set in 2012. Pete's 33 and Brendon is 25. Roll with me here, it'll get better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, man,” a voice cuts through the night, but Pete can barely hear it over his pounding heart. A light flicks on--a flashlight--and shines right at Pete. “Jesus, dude, are you okay?” Warm hands. Warm hands on Pete’s shoulders.

The air is that sort of cold that hammers itself deep into your bones. The kind that makes you ache inside as you pull in heaving breaths. Pete runs, sucking that freezing air into his lungs, panting and gasping as his bare feet smack against the pavement. Sleet begins to fall—tiny needle pricks on his exposed skin. He casts a worried glance over his shoulder only to see that he's still being chased. He curses and pushes harder. His legs are on fire, the muscles burning with each and every step. A person can only run so far and Pete is close to his breaking point. His eyes dart around nervously as he rounds a street corner, an opportunity to hide. He spots a dumpster in an alley and knows that it's his best chance at saving his hide. He hops into the—thankfully—empty container and squeezes his eyes shut. Shivers wrack his body as he wraps his arms tightly around his torso. At least in the dumpster there isn't much in the way of wind or sleet. Seconds tick by like hours, but eventually Pete can hear the small group of men passing by the alley, continuing their search in the wrong direction. 

Pete’s teeth are chattering and his lips are turning blue, but a smile still crosses his face for a brief moment. Safe. He’s safe for now. Of course, there’s the matter of his shirtlessness and lack of shoes in the middle of winter, but he can worry about that after he’s had a chance to catch his breath. He grips the side of the dumpster and lifts himself out, falling to the ground rather ungracefully, the ice and asphalt scraping up his ribs. Of course, it’s at this point that a figure rounds the corner. Pete is frozen like a deer in headlights. It’s too dark to see clearly, but he can tell that it’s not one of the men that trailed him for miles. Just a stranger with a trash bag.

“Hey, man,” a voice cuts through the night, but Pete can barely hear it over his pounding heart. A light flicks on--a flashlight--and shines right at Pete. “Jesus, dude, are you okay?” Warm hands. Warm hands on Pete’s shoulders. 

“I’m alright,” Pete says, his teeth clenched. The pain in his side flares up, causing him to wince. 

“You’re not strung out on anything, are you?”

“No, no,” Pete says, shaking his head. “Just in a tough spot.”

“Yeah, seems that way,” the voice says. Pete can hear the confusion. “Okay, well, why don’t I take you inside so you can clean up?” It’s a question, really, not a suggestion.

“That sounds good,” Pete replies. He finally meets the stranger’s gaze and--oh, wow--he’s stunning. His brown eyes are filled with worry and concern and, God, that’s all Pete has wanted to see for a very long time. 

“Let’s go, my apartment’s in this building right here,” the man taps on the brick wall beside him. He tosses his bag of garbage into the dumpster and offers Pete his hand. “I’m Brendon, by the way.”

“Pete.”

“Nice to meet you, Pete,” Brendon says. He’s kind, very kind. Pete’s always had a knack for reading people and he can tell that he’s in good hands. 

\----

“Made you some tea,” Brendon’s voice rings out through the small apartment. 

Pete steps out of the bathroom, steam in his wake. He’s got clothes. Warm clothes. A nice cozy hoodie and a pair of flannel pajama pants. He’s so happy he could cry and so he does. Just falls to his knees and lets out a pitiful sound. Brendon is at his side in seconds. 

“Pete? Pete, what’s the matter?” 

Pete shakes his head as though he’s trying to rid himself of the past few years of his life. Memories that he’d rather forget. “Nothing,” he chokes out. It’s not convincing at all, but he doesn’t feel like talking just yet. Doesn’t want to scare away the first kind face he’s seen in such a long time. There’s so much he wants to unload, just to ease the burden a little, but it can wait. 

“How about you do nothing on the couch, then,” Brendon says, rubbing small circles on Pete’s back. 

Pete nods and gets to his feet. Walks the short distance to the worn sofa and curls up in the corner of it. Brendon disappears for a moment and returns with a blanket and a mug of hot tea. He sits down beside Pete and hands him the mug. Pete smiles weakly and takes a sip. Brendon unfurls the blanket and smoothes it across both of their laps. The TV is on in the background--some unknown channel playing infomercials--but the volume is so low that it’s difficult to hear. Pete feels...normal. As normal as one can feel sharing a blanket with who is essentially a stranger, he figures, but normal nonetheless. Brendon doesn’t pry, doesn’t ask questions. He just seems to appreciate Pete’s company. Still, old habits die hard.

“So what do I owe you for all of this?” Pete asks. His voice is monotone. There’s no emotion, no depth. Just a shallow question he’s asked far too many times.

“Come again?” Brendon raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t have any money,” Pete says quietly. “So...sex, then?” He sits his mug on the coffee table. 

Brendon scoffs. “What?” He stares at Pete with those soft, warm eyes and Pete feels his curiosity and sympathy. “Pete, you don’t owe me anything. I’m really sorry if I gave you the wrong impression I just--” His voice breaks. “I just want to help.”

There it is. Pete’s lost it again. His body shakes as tears flow down his face and he just sits there. Sits there next to someone he hardly knows and just cries and cries and cries. Brendon puts a hand on his shoulder to offer some sort of comfort and Pete turns to face him. 

“Thank you,” he says between sobs. He buries his face into the crook of Brendon’s neck, bunches up the fabric of the man’s t-shirt with his fist. “Thank you,” he repeats against Brendon’s skin so many times that it becomes nothing more than an incoherent string of noise.

Brendon runs his hand through Pete’s hair. Makes little shushing noises and traces patterns on Pete’s back. Eventually the crying fades out before stopping entirely. Pete sits up and looks Brendon in the eye.

“There are people looking for me, Brendon.”

“What kind of people?” Brendon’s voice wavers.

“I...I don’t really want to...” Pete stops himself mid sentence and casts his eyes downwards.

“Are they cops?”

“No,” Pete says. He looks up and Brendon, surprisingly, has a smile on his face.

“Then I don’t care.” Brendon yawns a little and Pete follows suit. “You’ll be okay here. And you can tell me more when you feel like it. No rush.”

Pete just stares. Stares at this man before him who is truly beautiful inside and out. Maybe Brendon has secrets of his own, or maybe he’s just that sort of person. The sort of good Samaritan you only read about in cheesy inspirational books or Reader’s Digest. 

“It’s late,” Brendon says, breaking Pete out of his trance. “Do you want to sleep?” 

God, yes, does Pete want to sleep. He wants to sleep for days on something other than concrete or a disgusting pile of blankets on the floor. He nods. “Yeah, sleep sounds great,” he says with a relieved sigh. Brendon points to a door beside the bathroom. 

“Bed’s that way. I’ll sleep out here.” 

Pete starts to protest but he knows Brendon won’t budge. The man is already covering himself up and laying down. Pete takes a few cautious steps towards the bedroom before turning back. “I don’t want to be alone,” he says. His voice is little more than a whisper, but Brendon still hears him and sits back up on the couch. 

“You want me to...sleep with you?” 

“I’m sorry,” Pete says hastily. What a stupid thing to say. “That was weird. Nevermind.” He backs away but Brendon stands up and crosses the room. 

“It’s not weird.” Brendon grabs his hand and gives it a small squeeze before letting go quickly, as though he feels he’s crossed some sort of line. He clears his throat. “Go ahead, I’m right behind you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's as though Brendon can sense his gaze, though, as he slowly opens his eyes after a minute or so has passed. He doesn't look away. Doesn't jump back or tell Pete to leave. He smiles._

Pete wakes up slowly. He's in a daze. There's no clock that he can see but by the way that the sun is beaming through the window he figures it's late in the morning. There's a muffled noise and a squirming figure pressed up against his back and—oh, right—it's Brendon. Pete lets out a long sigh of relief and rolls over to face the sleeping man. A sliver of sunlight falls right across Brendon's face. God, he has a gorgeous face. His full lips are parted slightly and his long eyelashes flutter as he dreams. His hair, once neatly combed, is a chocolate colored mess splayed out on the pillow. Pete is fully aware that he's looking at him for far too long but he can't seem to tear himself away. The moment feels so peaceful. So quiet. It's as though Brendon can sense his gaze, though, as he slowly opens his eyes after a minute or so has passed. He doesn't look away. Doesn't jump back or tell Pete to leave. He smiles. 

"Morning, Pete," he says with a yawn. The smile is still there on his lips and in his sparkling, albeit tired, eyes. 

"Good morning," Pete says. He smiles back but can't look Brendon in the eyes for long. Makes him nervous. He pushes the thoughts as far from his mind as he can. He doesn't want to feel like this. Brendon is different. Brendon feels comfortable; he feels safe and secure. Pete makes eye contact again and there must be something written on his face other than friendliness because Brendon is up against him before he has time to think. 

"I'm glad you're here," Brendon says before pressing a chaste kiss to Pete's cheek.

Pete inhales sharply and his mouth falls slack. “What?”

Brendon blushes a deep red, feels as though he’s taken things too far. His eyes are wide and panicked. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.” He fumbles over his words, won’t look at Pete.

“No, Brendon, it’s okay,” Pete says. He reaches for Brendon under the covers and finds his hand. Weaves their fingers together. “I’m just confused, man.” He takes a deep breath. “Look, it’s been a hell of a long time since someone treated me like this.”

“Like what?” Brendon looks up and chews at his bottom lip.

“Like I’m actually human and not a useless piece of shit.”

Brendon pouts. He scoots closer to Pete. Close enough that he can pull his hand free and wrap his arms around the other man in a tight embrace. Pete lets himself go. Lets himself get lost in the warmth and comfort and kindness of the hug. 

"Are you hungry?" Brendon asks, his voice muffled by Pete's shoulder. 

"God, yes," Pete says. He sounds desperate. He is desperate. It's been days since his last decent meal: a stale PB&J sandwich. 

Brendon pries himself away and rolls out of bed. Pete stares again, unashamed. Brendon's body is a sight to behold. He keeps watching while Brendon stretches and makes a noise that goes straight to Pete's dick. Doesn't even look away when Brendon meets his eyes and smirks knowingly. 

"I'm going to the kitchen. Coming?"

Pete nods, seemingly speechless, and gets out from under the covers. Brendon saunters off into the other room still clad in nothing but his tight boxer briefs. They don't leave much to the imagination and, oh, god, why is Pete imagining that anyway?

He adjusts his pants. Tries rather unsuccessfully to hide his erection. He tells himself it's fine. Just morning wood. No big deal. 

Except Pete knows it's not just morning wood. He can feel the arousal pooling in his stomach, feels his cock twitching just at the thought of Brendon in those underwear and—Christ, he's pathetic. Wanting to fuck the man who saved him like some sort of cliché damsel in distress. The first man who has shown genuine kindness in a very long time. It may very well be cliché but Pete can't help it.

\-----

Pete forks the last of his scrambled eggs into his mouth while Brendon just chatters away. He’s friendly, Brendon, and Pete appreciates the fact that he doesn’t push for information. Brendon is perfectly content telling stories and joking around and talking about light hearted things like movies he’s seen and albums he loves. Pete clears his plate and takes it to the sink. 

“So, Pete, what do you want to do today? Feel like going anywhere?”

Pete’s face goes blank. He doesn’t want to do much of anything except lie around and soak up every bit of comfort from this place before he’s inevitably kicked out. Plus, the thought of actually going out and potentially being found is downright terrifying. Brendon seems to sense his discomfort and comes to stand by his side. 

“We don’t have to do anything, okay?” Brendon puts his arm around Pete’s shoulder. “Hell, you can sleep all day if you feel like it.”

Pete smiles at that because, honestly, it doesn’t sound like a half-bad idea. “Okay.”

“I don’t work until Monday so you’ve got me all to yourself for the next two days,” Brendon says. Pete lifts an eyebrow. “Oh, well, my friend is coming over tomorrow for a haircut so I guess--.”

“A haircut?”

“That’s, uh, what I do. I’m a hairdresser.” Brendon mimes scissors with his fingers. “I could give you one too, if you want.”

“Is that your way of saying I look like shit?” Pete says, but there’s no malice in his voice. There’s a dorky smile glued to his face instead. Brendon smiles back. 

“Maybe, but I think you’ll clean up well.” 

Pete chuckles and runs his hands through his hair. It really is long. It’s not the sort of haircut for a thirty-three year old man. “Yeah, okay, I’ll take a haircut.”

Brendon practically jumps for joy. “Wow, really?! Great, I’ll go get my scissors.” 

Pete watches Brendon scamper away, his too-tight underwear still clinging to his hips and filling Pete’s mind with all sorts of dirty thoughts. He turns away. Can’t keep thinking about this. Brendon comes back a minute or two later with pants on, thank heavens, and a bag of hair cutting supplies. 

“Just sit down over there.” Brendon points to one of the dining chairs. Pete complies and wrings his hands. All of the doting and positive attention makes him anxious. Brendon’s on him in second. He wraps a towel around Pete’s shoulders and starts wetting his hair from a spray bottle. 

“So do you really know what you’re doing?” It’s not a serious question. Pete wouldn’t give a shit if Brendon was a toddler with garden shears. A haircut is a haircut. One step closer to looking and feeling normal again. His hair falls off in clumps and Pete watches it hit the floor.

“Of course I know what I’m doing, asshole,” Brendon sasses. “I finished school last month.”

“Last month?”

“It’s fine, I promise.”

“I trust you,” Pete says. He does. It feels weird to say out loud, but he really does trust Brendon. A thought that both scares and excites him. It doesn’t feel like much time has passed, but before Pete notices that Brendon’s scissors have stopped, there’s a mirror being shoved into his hand. 

“So?” Brendon looks at Pete expectantly.

Pete looks at his reflection and can actually see the disbelief written on his own face. “It looks great, Bren.” He runs his hand across the top of his now short hair and grins. “Really, I like it. Thanks.”

Brendon is nothing but a bundle of joy. “Oh, I’m so glad!” He takes the towel off of Pete and busies himself by sweeping up the hair on the floor. He pauses from his job and casts a sideways glance at Pete. Smirks a little. Pete recognizes the look. _The_ look. “You look really good, you know? A lot less homeless.”

Pete clenches his fist. Tightens his jaw. It’s an involuntary reaction. “What the fuck do you know about being homeless?”

Brendon jumps back, as if he can feel the tension in Pete’s body. His eyes look wet with tears. Tears? “It-it was just a bad joke, I didn’t mean anything.” Brendon stumbles over his words--and his feet--as he backs away slowly. He’s scared. Scared of Pete. 

Pete takes a deep breath and counts to five in his head. Lets his muscles relax a little before looking at Brendon. “It’s not your fault,” he says. 

He’s angry. Not at Brendon, but at the world. He knows that Brendon didn't mean any harm. Knows good and well that Brendon knows literally nothing about him except that he was half naked in a dumpster a little over twelve hours ago. He takes a step forward and the other man flinches. Pete doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know how to react or feel. He quickly closes the distance between Brendon and himself. 

“Pete, I-”

Brendon’s words are cut off by Pete’s mouth. It’s an angry kiss. Mostly teeth and tongue and, wow, Brendon doesn’t back away. He moans and the sound tears through Pete’s very soul. He steps back, wide-eyed. Confused. 

“I'm so sorry, Brendon,” is all he can manage to say as he furrows his brow and heads for the bedroom.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You can't avoid me forever." Brendon inches closer. "I just want to talk. No judgment here."_
> 
>  
> 
> _Pete rolls over slowly. Takes in the sight of Brendon in all his sweet and sympathetic glory. "There's a lot to talk about," he says. He sighs, long and heavy._
> 
>  
> 
> _"I've got time."_

"Wanna talk about it?" 

Pete doesn't move. He's curled up in blankets on his side, facing away from Brendon. It's been a few hours since the outburst. A few hours since the kiss. Pete's not sure which event is more upsetting. He feels Brendon climb into bed beside him. 

"You can't avoid me forever." Brendon inches closer. "I just want to talk. No judgment here."

Pete rolls over slowly. Takes in the sight of Brendon in all his sweet and sympathetic glory. "There's a lot to talk about," he says. He sighs, long and heavy. 

"I've got time." 

Pete has to give Brendon credit for his persistence. "Can I just give you the Cliff’s Notes version?"

"Sure," Brendon says. He looks happy, like he's won this battle. 

"God, where do I even start?" Pete closes his eyes and wracks his brain. "I used to be a foster kid. Got out of the system when I was 18 and had nowhere to go. Basically lived in homeless shelters for the better part of five years."

Brendon frowns. 

"I couldn't get a job and I was so desperate. This guy came along and offered me work. I said yes. Long story short I ended up being used in just about every way you can imagine. Anything to make this guy money."

"Pete that's awful," Brendon says. He strokes Pete's arm, something that seems to comfort him as much as it does Pete. "Is that who's after you?"

Pete chuckles. It's not a real laugh, though. It's anxious and dark. "No, not him. He's dead now."

"Oh." Brendon doesn't ask questions but he's not an idiot. Pete knows that Brendon understands. 

"One night the fucker almost killed me," Pete says. "Someone saved me, though."

"Who?"

"I've been trying to figure that out for a long time." Pete bites at his lip. "I just kinda think of him as my guardian angel. Sometimes I feel like I must’ve imagined the whole thing." It sounds so sappy out loud. There's a reason he's never told anyone before. 

"So if that guy isn't after you, who is?" Brendon is straight to the point. Pete doesn't really mind. He deserves to know. 

"Some guys I tried to rob," Pete says. "It didn't turn out so well, as you can see."

"Why weren't you wearing a shirt?" Brendon is like a damn raccoon. Too curious for his own good. 

"They thought they were going to fuck me." Pete laughs as though he can hardly believe it.

"Oh," Brendon says again. 

"I don't work for any one person these days," Pete says. "More like a gang. They're the ones that are going to be looking for me."

Pete watches Brendon's face go pale. He watches his chances of safety go out the window. Brendon is scared. He's not going to want to deal with any of this shit. It feels like an eternity passes with the two of them just laying there in silence. 

"They won't find you." 

"What?" Pete lifts his brow. 

"They're not going to find you, Pete. It's safe here."

Pete feels tears at the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill over. He blinks them away. "You're not scared?"

"I'm scared shitless," Brendon says. He laughs nervously. "I'm not going to kick you out, though." 

"Really?" 

"Really." Brendon sits up and rubs his head. “You smoke? Could use a joint after all of this.”

\----

Pete watches Brendon take a long drag from the joint and exhales, the smoke curling out from between his lips. He passes it to Pete and sighs happily. “Much better,” he says.

“Definitely,” Pete says with a cough. Two joints down and Pete’s head is in the clouds. He feels great for a variety of reasons, and the high only amplifies his feelings. The more he smokes the more his anxiety melts away. He finishes the joint and snuffs it out in an ashtray on the end table. They haven’t left the bed expect to get more weed from the living room and Pete is just fine with that. The bed is warm and comfortable--the way Brendon feels. 

“You really do look good, you know,” Brendon says out of the blue. He’s running his eyes up and down Pete’s body. Subtlety is definitely not one of his strong suits. It makes Pete’s stomach flutter; makes his heart beat light and fast. He smiles at Brendon and--fuck it.

Pete doesn’t care anymore. Doesn’t care if it’s stupid and wrong and in poor taste. He crashes his lips against Brendon’s. The other man gasps and Pete takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. He reaches up, grabs Brendon’s hair and pulls. Kissing him feels good. So, so good. He tastes like coffee and cinnamon and the way he leans into Pete and presses up against his chest drives him wild. 

“Pete,” Brendon breathes out. Pete bites his bottom lip and he whimpers. “What are you doing?”

“I want you.”

The words hang there, frozen in time. Pete licks a stripe up Brendon’s neck, earning a loud groan in response. Brendon bucks his hips. Can’t seem to help it. He doesn’t reply, just grinds his hips against Pete’s. They’re both so hard. Their cocks brush together and both of them cry out. Pete wants to get off. _Needs_ to get off. He knows it won’t take long. Brendon licks and bites and sucks all over Pete’s neck and chest. Whispers his name as Pete reaches down and palms his cock. Brendon does the same, gripping Pete through the fabric of his pants. They continue to move together. Hands roam, hips buck.

Pete kisses Brendon hungrily. “Not gonna last,” he says. He’s panting, thrusting against Brendon’s hand. Brendon grins devilishly and tugs Pete’s pants down just far enough to free his erection. He’s leaking, the head shiny with precum. Brendon wraps his hand around the shaft and works it up and down. “Oh, god, Brendon,” Pete practically screams. It feels fantastic. He’s so close. Feels the sensation building. He comes with a long string of curses mixed with Brendon’s name. He floats back down to earth. Brendon’s pupils are blown and he looks at Pete desperately.

Pete pulls the man’s pants down and flips him over onto his back. He licks just above his cock and watches it twitch. Tastes himself mixed with Brendon’s sweat. “Oh, please,” he begs. Pete licks the head; twirls his tongue around it. Brendon yelps. He’s already coming, hard and fast. Pete dips his head down and swallows. Enjoys it. He actually enjoys it.

“Thank you,” Brendon whispers, reaching down blindly and cupping Pete’s chin. Pete moves upwards and lies beside Brendon. Puts his head on his chest. Brendon wraps an arm around Pete and laughs. “That was unexpected.”

“Yeah,” Pete says. “I guess it was.”

“You’re okay?”

“I’m fucking wonderful.” Pete can’t remember the last time he was this content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of dialogue and pseudo-smut. sorry for the kinda boring chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Why are you so on edge? I thought he was your friend."_
> 
>  
> 
> _"He is," Brendon says. "But he's...well, he's really good looking and sweet and..." He stops himself and blushes. "Sorry, I don't want to make things weird between us."_
> 
>  
> 
> _"It's not weird," Pete says with a grin. "And you're cute when you're embarrassed."_

Brendon stands at his closet door. "Pete, come on. Get your ass out of bed." 

Pete grumbles and buries his face into the covers. 

"I mean it!" Brendon says, yanking the blankets away. "Patrick's going to be here soon and I don't think you want to be naked the first time you meet him."

"Fine," Pete says, forcing himself to move. "But I need a shower first." 

"Well hurry up," Brendon says. “I'll lay some clothes out for you. I need to set up my hair cutting shit." 

Pete heads into the bathroom and steps into the tub. He turns on the shower and stands out of the spray until the water heats up. He's almost sad that he has to bathe, as gross as it may be. He smells like Brendon. It's a good smell. Rivulets of hot water hit his skin as he backs under the shower head and he hisses at the sting. Gets used to it though and, damn, does it feel nice. 

Brendon is on his mind a lot. It confuses Pete. It's something he can't seem to wrap his mind around. He's so far from a virgin. Been fucked so many ways—most of them unpleasant—and learned to generally dislike sex. Sex is a job. But, hell, what a difference it makes to be with someone who actually cares. He figures it's a perfectly normal thing. It's so far removed from what he usually deals with that it feels like an entirely different thing. He does know that he's moving too fast. His mind races at a clip he can't keep up with. Pete still hardly knows Brendon but there's just a sort of spark. Something special. 

\-----

Brendon buzzes in his friend and waits anxiously by the front door. Pete chuckles. 

"Why are you so on edge? I thought he was your friend."

"He is," Brendon says. "But he's...well, he's really good looking and sweet and..." He stops himself and blushes. "Sorry, I don't want to make things weird between us."

"It's not weird," Pete says with a grin. "And you're cute when you're embarrassed."

Brendon sticks out his tongue just as a knock lands on the front door. He jumps. Reaches out and turns the door handle. 

"Hey, Bren," says an unknown voice. Pete moves to the side to see the stranger. He meets his eyes and Pete's blood runs cold. He's seen him before. 

"Patrick!" Brendon wraps the other man in a hug. He steps back and motions for Patrick to come inside. "This is my friend Pete," he says. 

"Nice to meet you, Pete," Patrick says with a smile. He holds out his hand and Pete shakes it. There's a hint of recognition in his eyes too. Pete can see it. He wants to say something but his nerves get the better of him. Suppose Patrick is one of his former clients? That seems unlikely, though, based on just how innocent the man appears. Then again, he knows that doesn’t mean much. He wishes he could remember where he's seen him before. 

"You too, Patrick" Pete nods. Brendon clears his throat. The two other men snap away from each other's gaze and look at Brendon. 

"Time for your haircut, 'Trick," he dramatically gestures to a chair. 

"Oh, right," Patrick says, distracted. He takes off his hat and sits down. 

Pete goes and flops onto the sofa. He turns on the TV and surfs through the channels. He's not interested in watching anything, just wants to figure out why Patrick looks so god damned familiar. He's seen so many faces in his life. Hell, it feels like he's fucked half of Chicago. He mulls his thoughts over and chews on his nails. The sound of Brendon's scissors and little snippets of conversation is relaxing and far more entertaining than the TV. Suddenly, he hears Patrick shout something and watches the man rush to the bathroom. 

"What was all that about?" Pete looks over his shoulder at Brendon. 

"He got something in his eye. I think he's taking out his contacts."

As if on cue, Patrick steps out into the living room with a pair of glasses on and Pete nearly has a stroke. It's him. It's his angel. All blonde hair and blue eyes and, shit, it’s been seven years but Pete could recognize him anywhere. His mouth goes dry. His palms sweat. He's sure that his eyes are bugging out of his head but he tries his damnedest to play it cool. 

Patrick ruffles his hair and shakes his head. "It looks great as usual, Bren," he says, putting his hand on Brendon's shoulder. "Thanks."

"No problem," Brendon says happily. "Sorry about your eye."

"Oh, it'll be fine." Patrick laughs. What a beautiful sound. Pete's stomach flip-flops. "I'm sorry I have to run but I got called into work. Hang out later this week?"

"Yeah, uh, that sounds good." Brendon stutters.

"Cool, it's a date." Patrick gives a wave to Pete. "It was nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Pete says.

Brendon closes the door behind Patrick and spins on his heel to face Pete. "So....?" 

"So....what?"

"So, one, isn't he fucking precious? And, two, why were you acting weird?"

Pete sighs and shakes his head. "Brendon, that's him."

"What?"

"That's the guy who saved my ass. The angel, Brendon," Pete says. He buries his face in his hands. "All of the time I spent wondering who he was and he shows up here of all places..."

"Patrick? Patrick's your guardian angel?"

"It sounds so fucking stupid now that I know he's real." Pete groans and falls back on the sofa. 

"Well, why didn't you say something to him?" Brendon asks. He stands behind the couch, looking down at Pete. 

"What am I supposed to say? 'Hey remember that junkie who was bleeding out on you seven years ago'?" Pete frowns. "It's not the right time. Besides, maybe he'll figure out who I am too."

Pete hopes he does. Patrick saved his life; occupies his thoughts way too often. And now he knows who he is. Patrick, like the saint. It's fitting. 

"Maybe," Brendon says. "I won't say anything."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another boring short chapter. sorry yall just trying to get the ball rolling here. also in case it's not glaringly obvious, i don't have anyone editing my work so if you see any major typos or something let me know. i try to go over this stuff with a fine tooth comb but sometimes i miss things. also i can't believe so many people are actually reading this. thanks guys! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He tries not to dwell too much on the very weird circumstances of his current situation. Afraid that if he thinks about it too much maybe he’ll realize it was all a dream. He doesn’t want to wake up on the ground half-dead only to find that none of this was real._

"Alright, here's a key and if you need anything just call me—"

"Don't have a phone, Bren," Pete says. He's lying through his teeth. He does. One of those shitty burner phones that's still shoved into the pocket of his dirty jeans. It's been turned off for two full days. He knows he's in deep shit. 

"Oh, right..." Brendon chews at his lip. "Well, I'm sure you'll be okay." He gives Pete a hug that's not as reassuring as he intends for it to be. "Still, I wrote down the number and the address to the salon just in case." He looks nervous; frantic. 

"Go, you're going to be late," Pete nudges Brendon towards the door. "Everything's going to be fine." 

Brendon nods and admits defeat. "Alright, I'll be home as soon as I can. See ya, Pete." He kisses Pete's forehead and he's gone. 

Pete locks the door behind him and sinks down, pressing against it. He's known in the back of his mind that eventually he'd be alone again but now that's he's actually in the moment it's downright terrifying. If anyone finds him, he's done for. He puts his head in his hands and sighs. 

\-----

It seems odd, but Pete finds that he loves cleaning. Well, love is too strong a word, but he finds it relaxing. It gives him something to do with his time and fills him with a sense of pride when he sees the shiny sink and folded laundry. It’s been awhile since he actually had someplace to tidy up. He figures it's the least he can do considering Brendon hasn't kicked him out yet. 

Brendon hasn't kicked him out yet. The thought feels so strange and foreign. 

Hospitality is not something Pete is used to. He's crashed on random couches and such in the past but no one has ever just let him _stay_ in their home without there being a catch. He tries not to dwell too much on the very weird circumstances of his current situation. Afraid that if he thinks about it too much maybe he’ll realize it was all a dream. He doesn’t want to wake up on the ground half-dead only to find that none of this was real. 

The problem is that Pete can’t stay inside forever. Eventually he’ll need to leave for some reason, even if it’s just to keep himself from being cooped up indoors too long. It makes him feel sick to think about it. He doesn’t want to be found. He doesn’t want to have to go back to being someone’s lapdog. Definitely doesn’t want to be forced into fucking people just to stay alive. 

It’s only 2 PM when Pete finishes cleaning everything he possibly can in the apartment. It's spotless. Hospital clean. It will be at least a few hours until Brendon gets back and Pete is lonely. Still scared. He picks a half-smoked joint out of an ashtray and lights it. Tastes like shit but he hopes it’ll improve his mood. He's just sinking into the comfort of the sofa when there's a knock on the door. His heart is pounding. Hands are sweating. He sits perfectly still on the couch hoping that whoever it is will just leave. 

They don't leave. They knock three more times before he hears the voice. 

"Pete? I know you're in there." 

Dread. Nothing but dread. He creeps to the door and stands there, his hand hovering above the knob, trying to decide if he's ready or not. 

"Pete, it's Patrick. Open the door."

Pete swings the door open, grabs Patrick's arm and pulls him inside quickly. He looks out into the hallway and, seeing nobody else, he closes the door. 

“What the hell?” Patrick’s voice is raised.

“I’m sorry,” Pete says. He takes in the sight of Patrick, and what a sight it is. He’s wearing a light blue button up and grey slacks that cling in all the right places. His hair is rumpled and he looks exhausted but, god damn amazing. Equally appealing is the box of pizza in his hands. 

“What took you so long to come to the door? I was knocking forever.”

“Oh, uh..,I was napping. I didn’t hear it at first.” Pete yawns, trying to add some credibility to his statement. 

Patrick looks at him, that hint of recognition in his eyes again. Pete’s anxious. He wants to say something so badly but doesn’t even know how to begin. 

“It’s okay, no big deal,” Patrick looks confused. Probably because Pete offers no explanation to his strange behavior. He holds out the box of pizza to Pete. “Brendon called me and said he was worried about you. Asked me to bring you this on my way home.”

“Wow, thanks,” Pete says. Brendon, that sneaky bastard. “We can just put it on the counter.” He takes it from Patrick and sits it down before grabbing a slice and shoving it into his mouth. Grease drips down his chin.

“Really like pizza, huh?” Patrick smiles. “Also, did _you_ clean this place? Brendon never keeps it looking like this.”

“Yeah, I was bored,” Pete says as he chews. “And I haven’t eaten anything all day so…” He flips Patrick the bird and chuckles. Patrick follows suit. “So, uh, do you want to sit down or something? Have some pizza?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Patrick kicks off his shoes and heads to the couch. He lays across it and rubs his eyes. “I’m so damn tired today. Class full of four year olds. Cute in theory, not so much in practice.”

Pete grabs another slice and actually puts it on a plate before sitting down on the edge of the sofa. Patrick moves his feet politely. “So you’re a teacher?”

“Kinda. Just a substitute.” He shrugs.

“That’s cool.” Pete doesn’t know what else to say. His mind is racing. _Tell him, tell him_ chanting over and over in his brain. 

“Hey, this might sound weird but have we met before?”

He said it. Patrick fucking said it. Pete nearly chokes. 

“Is that a yes or…?” Patrick raises an eyebrow.

“Um, no?” Pete says. Sounds like a fucking lie and he knows it. He sits down his plate and looks at his hands. Picks at his nails. “No. No, I don't think so.”

Patrick stares. Just stares, like he’s running through his entire bank of memories. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure. Maybe we've just passed each other on the street or somethi—"

"No," Patrick says, cutting Pete off. He finally seems to remember and his eyes light up. “You’re the guy from the park.”

Pete doesn't want to look at him. He's embarrassed. Countless hours of his life have been wasted thinking about the man in front of him, but he's awkward and uncomfortable now that that Patrick knows who he is. As if Patrick knows all of the details surrounding Pete's predicament back then. 

"Holy shit, you're alive." Patrick looks at him in disbelief. He doesn’t look like he cares about anything other than the fact that Pete didn’t die that night. It’s a welcome relief.

“I’m alive.” Pete grins. It feels good. So, so good. Good to get this weight off his chest.

“I’m so sorry I left you there, I just didn’t know what to do but, oh my god, you’re alive and you actually remember. I can’t believ--”

“Patrick,” Pete interrupts. “It’s fine. You saved me.”

“I always wondered what happened.” Patrick shakes his head. “I was scared. I was covered in blood…” He laughs like he can’t believe what he’s saying. “I’m glad you made it.”

“Yeah, me too,” Pete says. He almost buys into it, too. With the exception of the past few days, he hasn’t really felt like living in a long time. Always too scared to just end it, though. He kinda figured it would just happen on its own. 

Patrick's expression is so soft and caring. His blue eyes look like they did all of those years ago but deeper. Older. He's seen a lot since then. "Brendon said he found you in a dumpster."

Pete stiffens. "What else did he say?"

"Not much. Why?” Patrick asks. 

“Just curious.” Pete’s secrets are safe. Thank god. “You want a beer or something, man?”

“I’m good,” Patrick says. He sits up and looks at the watch around his wrist. It’s an expensive watch. Pete can tell just by looking at it that it must have cost a small fortune. Can’t help but wonder who bought it. “I actually need to get going.” Patrick stands up and slides his shoes back on. “Still got dry cleaning I need to pick up before I head home but, hey…” He puts his hand on Pete’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “It’s really good to see you again. You know, alive.”

Pete smiles and wraps his arms around Patrick. It just happens. It feels natural. “Thank you, Patrick,” he says quietly and close to the other man’s ear.

“Don’t mention it,” Patrick hugs back, his arms pulling Pete even closer. They stay glued in place. A couple of minutes pass before Pete finally breaks the embrace. 

“You should come over again. Soon. I know Brendon really wants to hang out with you too.” 

“I’ll be back before long.” Patrick heads for the door and looks back over his shoulder before he leaves. “Goodbye, Pete.” 

Pete is more convinced than ever that this is all a dream.


End file.
